


190 mph

by uberchrome



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 09:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13855110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uberchrome/pseuds/uberchrome
Summary: a hundred lifetimes, three important words, two lovers, one tragic end.this is what our life has come to. you disappear just when i'm about to wake, leave the moment i enter. you die just when i finally figure out what it's like to live. despite all this, i clutch the bag of memories; yours and mine. and then hope that the next time i live, you'll be close enough to touch, warm enough to hold, yet still you enough to love.





	190 mph

 

part one;  _the servant_

 

The sky is an azure blue, lumps of white clouds with dances over the limitless heavens. If you look up, you could see nature untouched by any form of machinery, spewing dangerous fumes for the atmosphere to soak in. Men have yet to unleash countless miracles from their hands.

 

This is the seventh century. 

 

Silla, being one of the greatest of Korea's Kingdom and longest dynasty, nurses novelties and scholars, weary travelers and refreshed rulers who wave their hands while waiting for servants to fulfill their wishes. Somewhere between the palace gate where armored guards stand, and run-down shops bartering for change, there wrestles two men; one a servant, the other a crown prince. 

 

Their rascal yells are muted by the thick walls, the crown prince cursed with a permanent sneer on his face, the servant burdened by his family's debt to the King. 

 

"No! I'm the one that's gonna go and fight! This is my kingdom we're talking about! Mine!" Oh Sehun cries, his beloved jade necklace shaking on his chest. "You're one of the caretakers here, you have no right to wear my armor!"

 

Kim Jongin fastens the strap of the bag holding his sharp arrows. He looks at Sehun, lazy eyes and lazy lips. Tension and worry poisons the air between them, and somehow, it clings to Sehun's undergarments and Jongin's riding boots. "Don't worry about me. I'll do this for you." 

 

"That's the problem, can't you see? This is my battle. I should have the honor of assassinating that be-damned Chinese ruler. Why can't you understand that?"

 

Lips are pressed tight against each other, preventing a confession from flooding out. Kim Jongin turns, squares his shoulders, never sparing a glance at Sehun's face. One look at the prince, and Jongin knows he won't be able to stop himself from baring his true reason; it's not the prince's shooting accuracy he's worried about, but the prince himself who could make Jongin's heart feel like a house (made out of wood) on fire.

 

Sehun is just too precious; worth more to Jongin than all of the kingdom's golds and pearls, nobles and peasants combined. 

 

"I'll be back," Jongin says and even to their ears, it sounded like a lie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He should have remembered how stubborn the caramel-haired prince was. 

 

In the middle of instructing three men about how they'll conduct the killing from the rooftop, Jongin catches a figure moving on the grounds. The way the intruder walks with that lean physique causes Jongin to drop the conversation and search for him again. Sehun is the only person who walks as if a broomstick is glued against his back.

 

They assumed that the King and his escorts would arrive in less than three minutes now, and Jongin can't afford Sehun ruining everything by being here. With trembling hands, Jongin slides down the rooftop's protection and into the paved grounds, dashing around to find Sehun who probably has his own weapon and plans. 

 

 _Damn it, damn it. I told you I'll do this for you,_  Jongin's need to find Sehun arises as he hears the rush of an incoming chariot; some horses neighs, the ground subtly shakes. They can't be seen out in the open. Jongin looks up at the three men he left behind, knowing they're more than just capable of taking down the King's company. 

 

Now all Jongin has to worry about is getting Sehun. Jongin hides behind the shadow of some post. The moonlight is his enemy, too. Almost half a minute of his eyes skimming through the clean, stone grounds, and some arrows begin to slice the velvet skies. Cries of agony follow suit. Jongin assumes that targets had been hit, but some arrows fly back, too. Others with flames glowing at the end, burning other men in hiding. 

 

Still, Jongin searches for Sehun in the middle of this chaos. He finds the prince wheezing near the gate, grasping for air while clutching the arrow perched on his chest. And in the blink of an eye, nothing else mattered. Not the assassination or fallen men. Not the King or his warriors. 

 

What mattered was the moon shining gloriously from the inky-black sky. What mattered was the blood soiled on the ground. What mattered was the way Sehun's hair was damp and knotted, lips chapped, eyes set too faraway, and his cheeks littered with spiderweb cracks where Jongin thinks his soul leaked out. Sehun is everything Jongin shouldn't have touched, but then he did and  _oh god, he fell in love._

 

Now look at where Jongin's unrequited love got Sehun; death.

 

Jongin leans down to kiss Sehun with finality, ignoring the weapon enclosed in Sehun's heart. Sehun's lips tastes like death, and he was gone just as easily as the ground beneath Jongin.

 

 

 

✖✖✖ 

 

When Kim Jongin wakes up, his body seems refreshed. As if someone dipped him in a pool off the Antarctic coast. His memory's been tampered; there are things he remembers, but can't imagine himself doing. His bedroom door opens, and Sehun comes inside with his shirt wrinkled, and face clear of any emotions. 

 

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Jongin asks, and swears those words made more sense in his mind.

 

Sehun chuckles, pleasant bells in his throat warming Jongin more than the sheets he's toasted in. "Do you really want to get rid of me that badly? Is that why you pushed me off the waterfall yesterday?"

 

"Yesterday?" Jongin tries to remember, then there's a flash of green and rushing water, a memory that isn't his but his at the same time. 

 

"But, prince! Why would I push you off a waterfall?"

 

"Prince? Wow, that's a good improvement from the vile nickname you called me yesterday. Maybe you should sleep more and more. It's making you kinder," Sehun's informal way of speaking gets him off guard, too. Like everything else right now, Jongin is still trying to adjust to the changes leaping from every corner. 

 

_What happened to the clothes? To the prince's robes and his humble attire? What about the prince's hair and his? Why are they so unholy and short? Where is this place?_

 

The questions dampening Jongin's mind evaporates in the heat of Sehun's smile. Never witnessing Sehun grin so carelessly before, a familiar warmth springs forth the gap between his ribs, sneaking up to the edges of Jongin's heart. He stands up, walks to Sehun, and takes his soft hand in his, holding it so tightly their flesh must have begun to mold into each other. 

 

"In this moment, you make sense when everything else doesn't," Jongin whispers and Sehun hides a blush behind a series of 'Man, you're so cheesy, this isn't some sort of novel!', 'I don't swing that way!', 'Go to hell, Jongin'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The 38th Parallel is the dividing line between North and South Korea, and this is the year 1950. 

 

Jongin barely remembers and Sehun knows on their good days with good weather and good food churning on their stomachs, they jog over to this border, place a limb over to the other side before laughing at how they're in two places at the same time.

 

Sehun is reckless and sixteen, dragging Jongin by the hem of his loose shirt. Jongin is seventeen in this life and burdened by the memories Sehun can't remember. There had been a time when it was Jongin who towed the reluctant crown prince secretly out of the palace. There had been a time when they could remember the same things.

 

"Please, Jongin? Don't be so damn difficult now. I'm getting tired," It's halfway between a whine and a command and Jongin finally settles to walking side-by side Sehun. The boundary's a few feet away. Sehun stares at the birds flapping their wings overhead. Jongin kicks small pebbles and looks at Sehun the same way a collector admires his most-prized possession. 

 

"Why do birds make that annoying sound when they fly?" Sehun inquires, ignorant of Jongin's longing looks. 

 

"Why do we swing our arms when we walk? I think it's because it seems more natural that way." 

 

"What else is natural for you, Jongin?" 

 

"Talking, walking, breathing, but even that gets tiring, too. You? And don't copy my answers," Jongin warns, and again Sehun's smile outshines the golden sunlight peeking through the branches of summer's trees. 

 

"This," Sehun uses his ring finger to mark the distance between him and Jongin, a jade ring adorning it. "Being with you like this is natural. Sometimes, I believe that I was born just so I could waste days like these with you. Cheesy, right?" 

 

Before Jongin could murmur something about dying for every second spent with Sehun, dark and large trucks grumbled behind them. Jongin guides Sehun to the side of the road, both watching how men flit through the green flaps cradling heavy weapons. From dirty handguns to the latest rifles, their ammunition sparked alertness to the unsuspecting Jongin and Sehun. This is the time of peace; where no one stirs war again.

 

"Why are they here? What are they doing closer to the. . . ." The rest of Sehun's sentence is being drowned out by the bang of exchanged gunshots, men as they scream orders at each other. Jongin doesn't hesitate to drag Sehun this time, away from the violent bloodbath. 

 

"Let's go, let's go," Jongin's voice is barely audible because of the loudness of his thudding heart. His right hand is encircled around Sehun's bony wrist, hurried footsteps sharp against the ground carpeted with stones. Unable to lose Sehun again. Lost him once and it was unbearable. Lose Sehun twice and sanity might as well depart from Kim Jongin. 

 

"Stay with me, prince." Jongin pleads, looking straight ahead as he feels the strength of Sehun's arm scoop to level zero. When he turns, Sehun's knees give out beneath him, pupils dilated and mouth parted open in surprise as he falls to the ground. Shot. 

 

 

 

✖✖✖ 

 

 

After a few more replays in different settings, Kim Jongin wakes up. He knows who he is and what he is and who it is that he loves, but the weight of his tragedy anchors his limbs downwards. To the tired bathroom floor he slept and woke up. Flashes of plastic cups filled with alcohol, raised for a toast and unfamiliar bodies grinding in a dark room visits his mind. This the 1990's and being wasted is considered cool. 

 

Jongin takes a deep breath, ignoring the pounding on his head, demanding for attention. He thinks instead of Sehun, because Sehun is the only thing that's constant in a universe that keeps on changing its course; rattling Jongin to be a soldier, or a poor sixteen-year-old caught up in war. 

 

Everything's been moving so fast; Jongin is in an express train he had no intention of getting on. Different things happen. Different Reasons. Different Roles. Different Personalities. But the same feelings and endings. When Sehun dies, things go on a different track. 

 

Without thinking, Jongin bangs his head against the bathroom wall (he has idea where this place is, just that the bathroom is neat enough). His hand reaches for a handful of his hair, wanting to tear them out in frustration. 

 

The truth is, he isn't the love-struck Jongin who pines for the dead Sehun. He isn't even that soldier who lost his best friend while on a mission. He is Kim Jongin, son of a humble palace servant who somehow found favor in the King's eyes. He is Kim Jongin; raised to question every little thing he can't understand, to delve deeper into philosophy in order to grasp how individuals think. He's been trained to be able to go arm-in-arm with the crown prince, Sehun in battle. Jongin's been nagged at to know how much sugar Sehun secretly adds to his herb tea.

 

Kim Jongin should have protected Sehun, should have lived on to badger Sehun about his diet and studies, problems and plausible solutions. 

 

They shouldn't have left and set off this grenade bursting with an avalanche of worlds and alternate endings. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Go on and jump," Jongin encourages Sehun, leaning close to the edge of the school's roof. Two hours of looking around and talking to people, and Jongin gathers he and Sehun are supposed to be enemies in this time. The soccer and basketball captain who can never get along with each other, biting the other's leg off at every ball game. Trading insults behind rusted gym lockers and leaving nasty one-week-old food on each other's desks. Currently, Jongin thinks they're getting more interesting. 

 

Sehun turns, tears racing down his cheeks and Jongin knows he isn't supposed to, but he rushes to Sehun anyway. Out of rekindled love and affection than rivalry. Sehun shuffles closer to the open air, gentle breeze caressing his blonde hair, and Jongin imagines that if he's a photographer in this lifetime, this would have been the perfect shot of Sehun. A single captured moment in an ocean of moments.

 

"Of course you'd want that, wouldn't you? We've always been fighting, Kim fucking Jongin. If I jump here, I bet you'd throw a party and invite the whole class," Sehun chokes out. Jongin attempts to separate the emotions in Sehun's syllables. 

 

"You're wrong," Jongin leans to the side of the railing, an arm's length away from where Sehun's stands. "I would have invited the whole city, no. I would have invited the whole city along with some nearby villages, and then I'd have some really famous DJ and some popular actors there, too. And you'd be in hell because where else can you be? You'd be giving Lucifer a headache as I party like there's no tomorrow."

 

"What a good way of convincing someone not to jump," Sehun smiles and this one is different, along with his smiles from the previous lifetimes. Jongin concludes that Sehun's smiles are snowflakes; not one of them perfectly identical to the other. He's been through lifetimes, and he'll probably be on more lifetimes, but Sehun's smile will forever be a galaxy of peculiar. Sometimes, they're quick smiles, other menacing, rarely, it's heart-warming. But despite the appearance, they all do the trick and ensnare Jongin's heart and soul, reminding him why Sehun is worth the repetitive catastrophes. 

 

"I wasn't trying to stop you from jumping. I was being polite and making small, casual talk, prince." Jongin steps on what's left of Sehun's crushed pride, because really, the way Sehun furrows his eyebrows when agitated is kind of, sort of, okay it's really cute. 

 

"When I die, I'm going to haunt your soul and choke you to death with a banana. That prince thing is annoying!" Sehun's famous last words before turning and diving headfirst. His favorite bracelet tinged with jade sparkles underneath the sunlight, catching Jongin's attention. 

 

Jongin only smiles when he hears a resonating thud. _See you later._

 

 

 

✖✖✖ 

 

 

"Hello, good morning! I'm Luhan, and this is my partner, Sehun! We're the couple living next door. I hope we'll be good, and happy neigh—" The wooden door slams loudly against Luhan's glowing face. The welcoming smile is replaced by a puzzled expression; wide eyes looking for answers about their new neighbor's rudeness on Sehun's lips.

 

"I don't know, love. Maybe he's just shy, or he's not in a good mood. People have reasons," Sehun responds with the familiarity one can only acquire by being with someone for a long time. 

 

Luhan stares at Sehun, softly, shyly, as if the years they've spent together didn't cast their shadows on their first meeting. Heart-warming stares like these transports Sehun back to their initial encounter; two book-lovers glancing around the library, finding each other instead, and leaving with strings of digits scribbled hastily on the back of borrowed books.

 

"I'm so glad I found you," Luhan murmurs. Jongin peeks through the crack in his door, discovering a new level of agony when Sehun stares at Luhan the same way Jongin looks at Sehun in all of their lifetimes. Sehun is _happy._

 

 

 

✖✖✖ 

 

Next time Jongin meets Sehun, Sehun has pink hair and looks like the grunge version of Hello Kitty. Hello Kitty gone high, wrong, and castrated, that is. Jongin had been walking down a park with autumn's burning leaves falling behind him when he spotted Sehun. By far, this is the worst he's seen Sehun look, but there's a certain light behind Sehun's pupils, grace in the way he tilts his neck to observe his surroundings.

 

Jongin can sit down and watch Sehun underneath the tree's shade forever. 

 

Instead he makes himself comfortable beside Sehun, close enough to touch and see the 'free listen' sign lying beside him. "What does that mean?"

 

"It means that you talk and I shut up and listen and keep it with me," Sehun explains, speaking slowly. He takes his time with each word, as if he's got all the hours in the world and not even a drop of 'care'. The pink hair suggests that.

 

"Okay, maybe I should give this a try, right? This talking thing. You're a weird stranger," 

 

"Huh-uh, tell me more," 

 

"Are you being sarcastic or are you being a sarcastic prick?" 

 

"I'm a little bit of both," 

 

"I could tell," Jongin shakes his head, glad to have this kind of conversation with Sehun. After examining Sehun's pale hands and clean fingernails, Jongin lies. "I'm a writer."

 

"Cool, continue." The leaves rustle overhead, faint footsteps serving as a backdrop for Jongin's narration. Peaceful and serene afternoons like these are what drives Jongin into wishing that somehow, he'll be able to prevent the reoccurring tragedies, and maybe he can even brew Sehun tea every single morning (and allow him to put as much sugar in it as he wants), then they'd talk about menial things like this girl from work who never cuts her nails, or about paying for the electric bills, or whose turn it is to clean this car this week. 

 

Normalcy is a luxury seven billion people overlook. But then again, none of them are Kim Jongin and Oh Sehun. None of them live over and over again, with a hat on their heads. A hat decorated with thorns and loaded with the questions;  _Is it really him? Is this the last time? Will Sehun die? Would you be happier without me?_

 

So they go on with their normal lives, unaware that some where, some time, there are two lovers struggling to untangle their fates, trying to tie up loose ends.

 

"I have this idea, this might seem cliche, but I do believe that given the right writing style and elements, this can really be good." Jongin begins, shifting in his place until it's the right angle that he can see Sehun react to each 'idea'. "It's about this palace servant, and this dates back to the seventh century. A servant in love with the crown prince, whom he happened to be assigned to look after. Now this prince is stubborn, willful and smart, but oblivious when it comes to feelings. Naturally, he doesn't notice the meaningful looks this servant's giving him. Your classic case of a one-sided love. Unrequited love. Call it what you want." 

 

"Is this all historical?" "No, this gets better. It has fantasy and psychology." 

 

"Psychology?" "As in the servant went cuckoo. Bonkers. Mad as a woman on her period." Jongin basks in the sphere of Sehun's laughter. Hearty laughter that Jongin joins into because Sehun's laughter is as contagious as a yawn. 

 

Oh Sehun stops when the rays of the sun illuminates Jongin's eyes; then creating a fading halo atop his head. Sehun feels like this all happened before. A deja vu; except that this one brings with it a surge of emotion close to longing and desire, but not really that synonymous. Sehun mentally nags himself for being so imaginative. Like, hello? Who the hell longs to lock fingers with a stranger? A stranger-writer-extraordinaire to be precise. 

 

"The prince was killed because he was stupid enough to get killed, and just when the servant wanted to pull a sleeping-beauty on the prince, they both vanished." Jongin then tells Sehun about the servant's adventures through time, how he traveled with a suitcase of his original memories, hand-carrying a bag of the little things he loved about the alternative versions of the prince. 

 

"But which one did the servant like? Which version? If he kept seeing different counterparts of this prince, the servant should at least have a favorite," This is Sehun's first time interrupting someone who came to him in the hopes of borrowing an ear. The writer-stranger with toffee skin allures Sehun. In more ways than one.

 

"Let me tell you something about the servant first," Jongin leans in closer, reeking of expensive cologne. "He's completely mad and smitten! He thinks that whatever this prince touches turns into gold. While there are some lifetimes where he doesn't like the prince, he's yet to come across one where hearing the prince's laugh or talk wouldn't have him tumbling down head-first. That's the thing about the servant and his feelings."

 

"What's the thing about the servant and his feelings?" Sehun asks after a whole minute of silence. Sehun wasn't aware a smile, a wink, and a look can catch him off-guard and had his heart beating wildly until the man before him does them.

 

Jongin whispers and his voice calms down the tide that is Sehun's emotions. "Reasons, situation, era, whether or not the prince remembers the servant, all these things are just a dot compared to the magnitude of the servant's love for his prince." 

 

"Wow. That is a beautiful kind of love," Sehun murmurs, eyes curtained by strands of pink hair. "I pity the servant, though." 

 

"How so?" "Because he's been alone all this time. He's been so strong and patient. He must be so tired." The compassion braided in Sehun's voice is what does Jongin in. 

 

There are instances when Jongin thinks he knows exactly what love is (what with the repeated lifetimes and parallel worlds), but sometimes Sehun just blinks so beautifully and Jongin forgets to look away and it dawns on him that it's impossible to reinvent love with every time they meet. Take it from Jongin; you can never love someone perfectly, despite the chances handed out to you. He blinks back tears and gulps down adoration. 

 

"He'll be alright. This is my story, remember? He'll be alright." It isn't until the writer-stranger leaves Sehun, and a whiff of citrus and some musky scent invades his senses, when he finally remembers. The writer-stranger smells like a memory; a moonlit night with burning arrows, a gun being firing in the middle of a sunny day, the soft wind as it ruffles Sehun's hair.

 

And Sehun stands up and runs to follow the writer-stranger, clueless about who he is and how they're related. But rest assured in the familiarity his scent and smiles bring. Sehun sprints forward, fiddling with his good luck charm; a jade brooch on his pocket. 

 

The writer-stranger is already across the road and Sehun runs, yelling without any care in the world. "I remember, you idiot! I remember you! I don't know you, but I know that I love you somehow!" When Jongin turns back, he sees Sehun in the middle of the road, red-faced and panting. 

 

Jongin turns two seconds before a fast truck, out of control, runs Sehun over. 

 

 

✖✖✖

 

 

In their next encounter, Jongin isn't Jongin, but Kai onstage. Kai is baptized with oil and sweat and dull glamour attracting his audience for the whole night. This Kai pretends to be happier inside bedrooms he can't recognize, waking up to the scent of some women's expensive perfume, or an old chap's cheep aftershave. The hired entertainer who never stays for more than just one evening. Most of the time, Kai leaves without any trace before the sun graces the earth for the day.

 

And Kai stands on the corner of the club he's working at, looking for something he doesn't know. His eyes skim past the barely-covered dancers onstage. They keep on searching until they encounter a familiar slouched figure. 

 

Sitting in one of the bar stools, this Sehun is all lazy eyes and wrinkled clothing; nursing a cigarette stick between dry lips and blowing smoke into Kai's direction when the latter sits beside him. 

 

"Work here?" Sehun asks, both knowing that Kai does, based on the sequined attire and oiled skin. 

 

Kai entertains the young man with tousled hair, speaking as if it's their first meeting instead of the thousandth. "I do, and I kind of mean to brag, but I'm the best one out here."

 

"You look like you are," Sehun winks and Kai suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands. He fidgets in his stool, wondering if this is Sehun's way of flirting or he's thinking much into it.

 

Sehun moves closer, whiskey-stained breath clutching onto Kai's exposed flesh. "Let's get out of here." Jongin and Sehun left side by side, both knowing that this is right and wrong. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What if I've seen you and fallen in love with you in a lot of parallel worlds?" His eyes are trained on Sehun's face. Jongin can eternally drown in the sea of Sehun's features. Scratch that; Sehun lips are Atlantis.

 

 

Sehun's neat room is slowly being filled in by sprinkles of sunlight, indicating the morning after their first love-making. Golden light splayed out over discarded clothes on the floor, over dirty-white sheets warming their tired bodies. Jongin had made sure to remember each detail; from the way Sehun looks under the lamp's light, to the way Sehun feels in his arms. It wasn't everything Jongin imagined it would be like--it was way better than that. After the intimate encounter, they slept soundly; contentment and love settling down on Jongin's lungs like dust.

 

"Theoretically?"

 

"Theoretically," Jongin confirms, admiring the slur of Sehun's tongue. 

 

"Say that we've seen each other before and you're the only one that can remember all those meetings, and I'm the clueless one," Sehun laughs, ignorant of the truth resting on his statement. "Then uh, I probably should  _feel_  guilty. Man! Just thinking of it makes me feel guilty. I don't know, I just hope that I love you better each time, to make up for those moments when I didn't."

 

It isn't until Jongin wraps an arm around Sehun's waist when he realizes how badly he's shaking. "Let's say that you didn't always love me."

 

"This is a weird conversation to have with someone like you," The mirth on Sehun's eyes diminishes everything else around them. Jongin shuts Sehun up with a kiss, making sure the next thing that leaves Sehun's mouth is a groan. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By each day that Sehun spends alive, the more Jongin fidgets in his room. He counts every ticking of the clock, waiting for the seconds when Sehun's own heart would refuse motion. It's not like Jongin has a lot of time spent to worry. As mild nights give way to halcyon mornings and serene afternoons, Jongin or rather, 'Kai', grows unbelievably attached to this Oh Sehun. 

 

Sehun's body is Kai's instrument; he strums Sehun like a guitar, plucked music from those needy lips and fed him kisses in the dark to keep them both contented. Without notice, Sehun fitted himself behind Kai's sternum. When Kai inhales, Sehun exhales with him.

 

 

"I like to paint," Sehun informed him with a firm tone. They'd been walking back to Sehun's flat after one of Kai's nightly shifts. They never went well. Kai's sensuous movements turns more sexual underneath Sehun's gaze. And they're both too aware, and being too aware isn't a good thing when it comes to damaged bed mattresses and headboards.

 

Kai is everywhere in Sehun's house; he's the sticky coffee stain on Sehun's kitchen table, the checkered boxer lying beneath Sehun's bed, even the dog-eared pages between Sehun's favorite books. They're the things Sehun leaves alone while cleaning, they keep him company when the real Kai can't. 

 

"I like the way you do this and that," Sehun's favorite words (but it's only because Kai utters them when Sehun is unaware). And that's what Kai is saying now, as Sehun finds it difficult to swallow down his cereal. Using firm fingers, he creates soothing circles against Sehun's adam's apple until the latter feels relaxed.

 

"Thank you." 

 

"Just be careful next time." Kai says, more to himself than to Sehun. More to his nervous heartbeat than Sehun's reassuring smile back. Even food serves as a lethal poison in a world where Kai is determined to save both himself and Sehun. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, Kai sneaks out of Sehun's house, goes back to his own to shatter the windows with vases, mirrors with plates. Things that break with things that hurt. The earsplitting sound of glass shattering is comfort to him. He isn't the only one getting destroyed by each powerful impact and the only one who sees the person whom they love die before their eyes.

 

Big to medium to microscopic shards of glass decorate the marble floor Kai walks on. They create a satisfying sound when he runs outside of his house. Starlit skies, whispering branches, invisible crickets, the heavens deaf to everything under the clouds; all these things Kai addresses when he shouts, "I'm going to save the both of us! This is a fucking sick game and this has to stop. I won't let you have Sehun again. I won't, just you watch!"

 

And Kai yells and yells until Sehun asks about his hoarse voice the next day and he has to lie as to why. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about being with someone long enough to fall in love with them for the eighth time, is that you can't help the onslaught of other emotions that comes along with love. Kai loves Sehun, but he gets mad at him, too. Also annoyed when Sehun traces the outlines of his lips whenever Kai mentions something about being extra careful, we never know what might happen. Ticked off when Sehun gets mad and shows him his 'indifferent facial expression'. 

 

"What are you working on?" He asks groggily, a toothbrush balanced between bubbled lips. This is also one of the things that irks Kai about Sehun; the secrecy when it comes to his artworks. As an avid fan of what Sehun can do with his fingers, Kai is brimming with curiosity as to what Sehun's been busy on. 

 

"It's a secret," Sehun says before retreating to his studio and shutting it behind him. Keys turning doors locked causes Kai's eyes to roll to the ceiling, down to the floor, and back to the closed studio, wondering what sort of spell Sehun's been casting using acrylics and bristles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I love you," The three words glides out of Sehun's mouth as fluidly as the river flowing in front of them. A picnic, as what people these days call it. A banquet, as what Sehun dubbed it upon seeing the baskets and baskets of food Kai explained he prepared overnight.

 

Kai's body reacted before his mind could; his heart hammering against its cage, veins surging with delight and excitement, his chest trembling with the magnitude of those three words. Three words that had been made special by the number of lifetimes he has to endure before hearing them. Kai replies with an 'I love you, too' that's insufficient when it comes to translating his feelings. 

 

It's Sehun who's responsible for their kiss under the tree's thick shade and their lips as they find their way into the other's. More than just oxygen spirals between them: electricity, drive, desire, things that not even Kai's clenched fingers can't grasp. Love, and the syllables composing their names slips on the third kiss and the seventh.

 

In their kiss, Kai mentally lists down the most captivating sounds he's ever heard: their heavy breathing before they lock lips again, the wild grass supporting their rolling bodies, fingertips tapping against jawlines, how Sehun pants 'Kai' like they're made of stardust instead of three letters, the 'I love you's Sehun scattered like seeds on Kai's collarbones and earlobes. 

 

"Please don't ever leave me," says Sehun weighed down by the mix of food he devoured within thirty minutes. 

 

"The universe needs to do more than kill us both again and again for me to finally leave you," 

 

"Has the universe tried?" 

 

"Yes, but it didn't succeed yet." Kai stretches his limbs as far as they could go on the ground. He turns to his side, and envelopes Sehun in a loose hug and they both stay still, as if somewhere, some time, there's a sculptor taking in the way their bodies fold in on each other and imitate their limbs on marble.

 

Sehun bites the inside of his cheek. "Parallel worlds, this and that. Lifetimes, reincarnations, versions. Why are you fascinated with these things? Far as I know, you're not into sci-fi or the likes. You worry me." 

 

"Really? Worry?" 

 

"Yes, worry." Sehun confirms with a nod. Jongin replies with a lazy grin, one that could mean a lot of things ranging from 'I really don't care about what you feel' to 'Your wish is my command.' Jongin stands up and offers his hand to Sehun before the younger can decode the meaning behind Jongin's smiles.

 

Cool, autumn breeze grazes the edge of Jongin's shirt and moves strands of his hair to the side."I know something that would make us both less-worried for the rest of our lives. Come with me, there's this place just for us." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _This place_  turns out to be a lonely, unlit dirt-road a few miles outside the city. Twisting, maneuvering a rented midnight-blue BMW through the dust covered path, Jongin's grip is steady around the wheel, his free hand driving its way into the spaces between Sehun's warn fingers. Dim lights and the scenery snaking past them are reflected in Jongin's eyes.

 

"Where is this place?" Sehun finally lets go of the burden two hours of not-speaking-to-each-other laid on his head. 

 

Engines groan beneath them, Jongin's knuckles turning pale from hanging onto the wheel serve as Sehun's reply. 190 mph. Neon orange stands out in the dark for Sehun to take in like fire alarms at two in the morning. There are certain times in your life when you could gather how stupid you are, and to Oh Sehun, this is one of those unforgettable moments. 

 

The car's headlights are flicked off, its interior as cold as the inside of a refrigerator. Jongin is speeding with a devil-may-care smile, courage on his right foot, and Sehun's heart wrapped around his wrist bone. It's like the whole galaxy slits through the crack in the window just to warn Sehun to get the fuck off this car at this very instant, but Sehun still hangs on to Jongin with the trust of a five year old.

 

"This is for the best," Jongin says and he has already pushed the gas pedal as hard as it can go.

 

"Just remember that I, Kim Jongin, love you and it doesn't matter if you forget everything else," Jongin says, voice as unstable as the car diving through the dark. 

 

"I'll be back for you, always." Jongin, the servant, says and tightens his hold on his prince's hand; the only thing that remained steady as the ground vanished and they tumbled and tumbled down to kiss the pit of death waiting for them.

 

✖✖✖

 

Life starts the second he lost his balance on the branch of an oak tree. His nerves tried, but they couldn't fight gravity as it tugs Sehun's lithe, ten year old body down the ground. His right rubs against soil. Muscles and bones crack from the sudden impact.  
  
  
Pain longs to make itself known through a sob and a shrill cry: things he forbade himself from repressing. At an even younger age, Prince Oh Sehun was taught to never let the sun see you suffer underneath it. _Don't wince or clench your fist. Never be open about your emotions. You're giving your precious sword to your enemy. Cry, scream if you have to, but child for heaven's sake, don't let anyone see you vulnerable. You're a prince,_  Sehun has grown up listening to sermons such as these. They're the lullabies tucking him to sleep.  
  
  
Mentally replaying his father's words, he gets up, keeping the hurt inside. Fate plays a trick on him by choosing this moment to reveal the King emerging from the palace. Awkwardly, yet humbly walking beside him is a boy with skin the color of dried wood, hair darker than a raven's wing, eyes gleaming like polished porcelain.  
  
  
Sehun wills his spine to stretch straight as he meets his father halfway. Spring's renewed leaves witnessed how Sehun nods politely to his father and the widening of the strange boy's eyes when the King introduced them to each other.  
  
  
"Kim Jongin, meet my son, the prince Sehun. He's the one I told you about. He'll be the one you're going to look after," The King smiles, leaving the two boys to wonder why introductions were necessary. Sehun is the prince of this kingdom. Who doesn't know him?  
  
  
"Thank you. I'll be putting myself under your care," It's Sehun who bows, fifteen degrees down with arms at his sides. He bites the inside of his cheek when his right shoulder strains with the movement.  
  
  
"No, thank you for this honor."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He is thirteen now; Jongin fourteen.  
  
  
Time intertwined the strands of their life tighter, pulling their limbs until it accommodated their ages. Archery training, horse-back riding, stroking thick ink against paper to perfection; doing royal activities together marred Oh Sehun and Kim Jongin. Together, they are nature in it's purest form. Jongin is the water gushing out from the streams. Sehun is the wind as it drops to freezing point, halting Jongin's way. But he's also the summer breeze sending ripples on Jongin's surface.  
  
  
Sehun convinces himself he dislikes the careless peasant. Dislikes him enough to drag him out for late night walks, to tell him things he's never whispered to someone else before. These are the secrets Sehun had been storing inside him for years in fear they'll mean less when handed out to another soul:  
  
  
-Sehun has nights when he feels his dad doesn't love him.  
-On mornings, these doubts are cleared by the sun's visits.  
-Sweets are his guilty pleasure.  
-The afternoon they met, Sehun fell off a tall tree.  
-He can't recall why he was up in that tree in the first place.  
-He's missing his mom who moved to heaven minutes after he entered earth.  
-The most touching love story, he thinks, is the tale of how his father fell in love with his mother.  
  
  
"The workers and guards here say that my mother was a witch. She came from a family with some sort of sorcery lineage. I saw portraits of her. She's extremely beautiful," Sehun shares one evening after practicing calligraphy.  His voice falters a bit. Jongin winces. "Some misconception. Folks said the King was just infatuated by her beauty, said she used a charm on him. God, if they only know how wrong they are."  
  
  
Leaning against a wooden post, tired yet enamored, Jongin urges Sehun to continue on his story with a nod.  
  
  
Sehun clasps his hands together. "Have you seen the hall of archives?"  
  
  
"The one where old books are dumped? Stinks like a bird's anus? Yes."  
  
  
His words tug Sehun's lips up to a smile. "Exactly. That one. I sneaked in there before. For curiosity's sake. One of the books state that spells only last for as long as whoever casts it lives. This is more than enough. This is how I knew it was really love between my parents."  
  
  
Three deep dents separate Jongin's furrowed brows from each other. Sehun reaches out to flatten it with his index and middle fingers. It's incredibly warm where skin meets skin. "I don't understand. Does knowing that proves love?"  
  
  
"At night, when I walk around the palace and pass by my father's room, I'd hear him crying. Loudly, quietly, sometimes  they're sobs. They're for my mother because he chokes out her name when I think he can breathe again. I heard them first when I was five years old, and I until now they're as loud and empty as before. It's love," Kim Jongin thanks the heavens Sehun wasn't looking at him when he mentioned the word love. "And I think it's as genuine as the ground we're standing on right now."  
  
  
This is when Jongin crosses the line dividing admiration from _love._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Maybe you should take off that jade necklace, your majesty. I don't deem it practical underwater," There goes Jongin again with his mocking voice and shoulders sculpted leaner by the years.  
  
  
"No thank you, I'm much more comfortable. Without this, I am a fish without gills."  
  
  
"Suit yourself. Your mother wouldn't like her jewels to be drenched."  
  
  
"No, she wouldn't like it if I don't wear the only thing she left behind for me," The rest of Sehun's argument slips along with Jongin's clothes. Piece by piece, gracefully and precisely. Entranced, the sixteen-year-old prince trembles as Jongin's hand tugs, pulls away the fabric embracing his body. It's as if Jongin not only strips down his robe, but also the barriers guarding everything Sehun holds dear.  
  
  
When Jongin is appropriately bare for the lake to wrap him in a damp hug, Sehun is having difficulty breathing. Jongin trashes about, splashing clear water in every direction. His eyes crinkles at the sides, lines moving towards childish happiness. It angers Sehun that there isn't a word combining desire, need, fascination, and helplessness. Not a single word could condense how he feels about the indifferent boy caressed by nature.  
  
  
Trees encircling the lake aids in giving them privacy. Water showers him with love by sailing down the smooth planes of his chest, resting on the pit between his collarbones; kissing every inch of Jongin with droplets. Sehun joins the cosmos in praising Kim Jongin by the thuds of his heart.  
  
  
 _Your mother wanted you to have this. She said this will give you the very thing you might need. Don't ask me anymore, son. I don't understand your mother half the time, too._ His father's explanation as he handed out the necklace echoes in his mind. He traces the outlines of the jade, looks at Jongin and sends a message. Maybe the heavens can pass this on to his mother: _The very thing that I need just might be a short distance away from me. Mom, if I walk about ninety steps, I'll be able to reach him. He is so close, mom. So close._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"No prince, the rules dictate that you shan't do that."  
  
"Setting a court official's robe on fire is very unkind of you."  
  
"No, prince. I don't think it's a good idea to drink sake for six hours straight."  
  
Jongin's lips combats all of Sehun's positive and careless outlook in life. Through the years, his 'caretaker' cast shadows on Sehun, in every aspect of his development.  
  
  
I'll be back, Jongin muttered.  
  
  
Sehun is left alone to stare in awe at Jongin's retreating figure. Unable to believe that this guy who criticized Sehun's habit for ten fucking years is now carrying arrows behind him, fighting for a battle that was supposed to be Sehun's. Four minutes of unnerving silence pushes Sehun into retrieving another set of weapons from his training room.  
  
  
I won't allow this to happen, he gears up before leaving, thinking of the stern servant who never really left his side.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Death is beautiful, in a sense. It gets you thinking of three things.  
  
It makes you aware of the most tender parts of you; your organs, flesh, muscles, each vein branching out of your heart.  
  
And death also causes you to think of hands; how they could do magnificent things like pluck harmonious music off strings or caress your lover's body, yet at the same time release an arrow lethal enough to pierce the life out of another human being.  
  
And last, and definitely not the least, death illuminates a person's importance in the life you've lived so far.  
  
Your life would flash right before your eyes; lies. The last thing Sehun sees right before his eyes shut close, is Jongin leaning in so close, close, closer against his lips, he must have tried to kiss some life into Sehun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
                                                                                         ✖✖✖  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongin gives importance to inanimate things Sehun had usually overlooked before.  
  
  
The couch with its moldy upholstery is now worth a bar of gold because it's where Jongin slumped down lazily, arms dangling at his sides, head resting on Sehun's lap. Jongin even made the floral-patterned apron special by sliding it on the night of Sehun's fourteenth birthday when he wanted some homemade chocolate cake more than he ever wanted anything else at that time. A year ago, it was a stained, jade ring Jongin claimed to have bought for just a few won. Needless to say, Sehun treasures it to the point where everyone around him thinks he'll carry that thing down to his grave.  
  
  
"If I had known you love something like that so much, I would have saved up for an even better ring to give you," Jongin regularly reminds Sehun this, for reasons unknown and he'd ribbon it up with, "I'm quite touched you value it."  
  
  
"No need. It's just captivating and really amusing, that's all." Sehun would always shrug Jongin's worry off with this reply, instead of the truth: You could give me a cube of sugar and I still would spend ten minutes of every hour taking care of it. Not about the thing given, but about the giver.  
  
  
Incidentally, Jongin doesn't give a damn regarding materials. He likes everything with a pulse. Anything warm, made out of bones and has their own biological clock. Blood and hands and hair, they're fascinating, he'd say with lips parted open in reverence and Sehun concludes the only reason why Jongin sticks beside him as if they're connected at their hips, is because he makes Jongin feel remotely alive.  
  
  
Maybe, just maybe, Jongin doesn't care who Sehun is, only about what he is: human and .  
  
  
And it's never a good thing to think when you like someone. It means there's a truck-full of others just like you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
His childhood friend's cutest state is ten minutes right after he wakes up and Sehun makes sure to barge into Jongin's room at exactly 9;43 in the morning just to witness Jongin in all of his dishelved glory. Tousled raven hair, clear eyes blinking its way to reality, and if Sehun is lucky, Jongin's shirt actually hitches up higher, revealing a lot of  _skin_. Sehun really likes Jongin's skin. Every inch of it.  
  
There's a lot of skinship going on when Jongin--who's definitely acting weird today--takes Sehun's hand in his and whispers a set of cheesy words that leaves Sehun a blushing mess. A few minutes later, Sehun will jump around his own room, with flailing arms trying to wipe the fluffiness away. He'll instruct himself to never wash the hand Jongin touched. The sheets and pillows on his bed will be scattered around the room, all due to pure excitement.  
  
But it'll be later. For now, he brushes his friend off and leaves with the words, "Get really, we'll be going out later."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
1950; this year is going to be safe, they said.  
  
  
No more gunshots at the crack of dawn. The grenades will vanish, along with the tremor it brings to the citizens who hears its explosion and treats them like alarm clocks. Comfort and safety will replace any deep scars the war left. Not that these two friends need to be protected. Kim Jongin and Oh Sehun finds refuge in the 38th parallel, the most dangerous place to be at a time like this.  
  
  
Six months into going to this place, and so far, the only injury they got was when Sehun tripped on his own feet and scraped his knee. Yet listening to the chaos stirring behind them has him hoping he shouldn't have dragged Jongin along. Not today. Or any day where he can be hurt.  
  
  
Let's go, Let's go, Jongin's voice is as shaky as his fingers wrapped around Sehun's wrist. As if reacting on impulse, Sehun purposely slows down to cover Jongin's back with his own lithe body. He looks back at the men with their guns and squinted eyes. Just in time, he catches one turn to them, muzzle obviously pointed to their direction. The man pulls the trigger before Sehun could say anything, not that he wanted to.  
  
  
Sehun goes down with a bang, a flash of regret, and a wave of pleasure in knowing that he saved the only person he needed to save. Stay with me, prince. From his blurred vision, Jongin's face is creased with worry and Sehun wants to tell him worry doesn't look good on him, that he's already happy and it's all because of Jongin and his skin and smile and that goddamned hand running through everything but Sehun.  
  
  
But following the unforgiving laws of nature, death fills his mouth and sighs out of his lips before any words can.  
  
  
He wanted to say; _I stayed._  
  
  
  
  
  
                                                                                  ✖✖✖  
  
  
  
  
  
Hospitals are white, everyone knows that. White sheets, white pillows, white walls, white coats protecting doctors and nurses from whatever they need to be protected from. Oh Sehun doesn't think it's a coincidence that the interior of a coffin is white, too. Hospitals are prologues to death. Sehun happens to fall in love over and over again with the words in the first page.  
  
  
"Oh, it's you again." Baekhyun, the nurse who witnessed Sehun develop his growing insanity, smiles at him under the light bulb's dull glow. Sehun is reminded how sickness extends even to the ones trying to cure them. Through the months, Sehun watched how the fire behind Baekhyun's eyes burnt itself into ashes.  
  
  
"It's me and where else can I be but here?"  
  
  
"Milan, South Africa, Western Europe, Las Vegas, and god forbid, Bhusan. Shit, Sehun there's more to life than visiting the place where your lover died half a year ago. I keep controlling myself, but this is too much." A sigh and an elevator look. This is what Baekhyun is all about. "Listen, on the first week of every month, I'm on the nightly shift and for the rest of the month, I work for the whole morning and afternoon. I take care of patients and help doctors and I think I'm secretly better than them. I know what I have to do because I've been doing it for the past three years. That's what I should know. That's what I'm supposed to care about."  
  
  
The air conditioner's rumble on the side of the empty lobby pops the balloon of silence between the dark-haired nurse and the boy with the sad, sad eyes. Sehun holds his breath.  
  
  
"But then I know you come here at every five p.m. Then you loiter around the corridors and I don't know if you're trying to call on Luhan's ghost or wish you're sick enough to be confined here. I don't know what kept you coming back here for six months, and I think you don't even know why. I'm not annoyed or curious anymore. Now, I just pity you." Baekhyun's confession is supposed to hurt, but it doesn't and this is when Sehun comprehends how much of an empty shell he is. You can't kill something as invincible as air (and just as fleeting).  
  
  
"You're right, you're right. Okay," He murmurs absent-mindedly, more of an attempt to get the short hospital employee off his back.  
  
  
Baekhyun sighs. "I don't know what to do with you anymore."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Life restarts the moment Baekhyun pushes Sehun inside some patient's room. In the two seasons he's been hovering like some spirit over the hospital walls, he's never entered another room after Luhan died in one. Different sheets, different things around the room draws out the same memory.  
  
  
"I want you to meet someone. You might need to meet this someone." Baekhyun guides him by his elbow deeper towards the room. All the same settings from all the hospital wards in the world: clean space all over, mortality's tangible presence tucked under the bed. Perhaps, perhaps it's only the patient and the disease that's gotten him inside that sets it apart from the rest.  
  
  
"This is Kim Jongin,"  
  
  
And Kim Jongin is the sick person lying by the deathbed; a stack of dark hair and lids closed in peaceful sleep. In the tangle of wires and machines keeping him alive, Sehun fails to see what he's got to do with  Kim Jongin. Answers fly out of Baekhyun's mouth as if Sehun asked the questions he's been wondering about out loud. "He's been in a coma for five months due to hypoxia."  
  
  
"Dumb it down, please."  
  
  
"Our Central Nervous System requires a lot of oxygen to its neurons. People get by this, but you know, there's always a glitch in our programming. The ones who suffer from the lack of necessary oxygen often ends up with cardiac arrest or this or maybe both. Not pretty, either way."  
  
  
 _He's terribly sick,_  Sehun forms his own conclusion. Baekhyun lost Sehun in the butchering of words like _neurons, cardiac arrest, glitches._ Why do we  need to classify types of suffering? "So he's terribly sick and forever asleep, I get it. And you want me to be buddy-buddies with him? I don't get it."  
  
  
Baekhyun who runs a hand through his hair before ruffling it. Out of frustration or madness, possibly somewhere in the middle. "It'd save all our lives. You talk to him about your troubles, and I could finally get rid of you. Tell him all the burdens in that heart of yours. He'll keep secrets, even your darkest ones. And then we all live happily ever after."  
  
  
Sehun laughs, clasping his hands together. "D'you really think trying this out would solve everything?"  
  
  
"Yes, this will work." Baekhyun pats Sehun's shoulder. Lightly. "On a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive, but I want you to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Misery finds company, even if they weren't looking for it in the beginning. Even if the other one is as good as dead and the whole set up seemed to be scratched in the stars. Thanks to Baekhyun's maternal pleading, bribery, and eventually, locking up the room with only Sehun and the comatose patient inside, visiting Kim Jongin became a part of Sehun's daily routine.  
  
  
The skies displayed behind the glass windows had been stuffed with angry, gray rain clouds when Sehun initiated his first conversation with Kim Jongin:  _I am the Oh Sehun, nice to meet you. How do you do?_  A stupid question, but it felt right at that time. Dim skies giving way to white clouds of various altitudes marked the first week of Sehun's friendship with the perpetually asleep man. Now that Sehun is at ease sitting beside the bed, the heavens express their calm by being a clear blue.  
  
  
Sehun got used to Jongin slowly. A subtle shift in his clock: three digits of the short hand dedicated to tangling Jongin in the vines of all the questions, memories Sehun could grasp. From the second he cried his way into the earth, to the year he discovered his love for literature, dripping down to the car accident that crashed Luhan out of his life, Sehun recounts his history to Kim Jongin. Jongin's skin absorbs Sehun's words like fresh ink on paper.  
  
  
Whenever Sehun's sentences echoes back to him, he allows himself to fall into the fantasy that Kim Jongin is awake. Kim Jongin can move on his own accord and Kim Jongin is saying everything Sehun longs to hear:  _Don't worry so much, I'm sure Luhan loved you to his final minute. You're not alone. You could still do fine on your own._  
  
  
Then the ECG smacks Sehun back to reality with its monotonous beeps, reminding him that just because something beats doesn't mean it could speak.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sehun comes over to room 430 everyday.  
  
  
He wears clothes bathed in floral, fabric softeners. The scent permeates the atmosphere, overpowering the stench of medicines. Unfortunately, Baekhyun doesn't miss the strong aroma tickling his nostrils from the lobby meters down.  
  
  
"Are you stopping by a florist before coming here? You smell so gay."  
  
  
Sehun bites the inside of his cheek, refrains from commenting about what he saw yesterday: Baekhyun having a quickie behind the vending machine with a tall, weird man who looked like a cross between human and chihuahua. Byun Baekhyun has no right to talk about homosexuality.  
  
  
"Nah, I read this article in Wikipedia about comatose patients. It said that even in that deep state of slumber, they're still aware of their senses. Now I don't know about you, but if I was Jongin, I'd want something constant everyday. Smelling like heaven just puked on me is fine as long as Jongin knows who it is the heavens puked on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Tell me more about Kim Jongin, doesn't he have any relatives visiting him?"  
  
  
"So you're bossing me around now. I see how it is."  
  
  
"Any family members coming over?"  
  
  
"No, as far as I know. His bills are paid by a relative working overseas, but aside from that, no one ever comes here for him ever since he's been confined."  
  
  
Sehun finally discovers something sadder than drowning in an ocean of unconsciousness while the rest of the world frolics on steady land and morning coffees--having no one to hope for.  
  
  
Compassionate is something people don't think Oh Sehun is. He's just so self-centered for that. Sehun's too sad to want to cheer someone else up, too selfish to extend kindness. So there must be another name for the feeling tying him up and towing him to Kim Jongin's room every single afternoon.  
  
  
Animatedly, he talks of this Yifan guy from work who is a tall, Chinese-Candian half-breed and with reverence, he reads his favorite poems out loud to Jongin, he lets Jongin know what living in the four corners of a novel feels like. By the week after the first year of 'light, one-way conversations', Sehun catches a slight twitch from Jongin's fingers. It's both insignificant and worth the whole universe to Sehun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
That night, he recites a passage from a poem by Bob Hicok, something he found beautiful;  
  
  
 _Hear when I say “I never want to be without you,”  
somewhere else I am saying  
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you  
in each of the places we meet  
  
in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying  
and resurrected.  
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,  
in each place and forever. _  
  
  
And instinctively, he reaches for Kim Jongin's limp hands, finding them much more magnificent than words. Wondering, for the first time, if he'd done this before and they mean something more each time. "What would your voice sound like? Do you like words? What's your favorite book? Do you fall in love with fictional characters? I do, all the time. It hurts, but it's a beautiful kind of hurt. Have you ever been hurt before?"  
  
  
Again with the heart-shattering silence.  
  
  
There are many spaces in Kim Jongin; between his fingers, the gap from his shoulder to his jaw, the hole between his lips where a thin tube is inserted to keep him alive. Oh Sehun has seven seconds to spare. This is more than enough for him to lean forward, tug the tube and replace it with his lips instead.  
  
  
Contrary to Chbosky's 'and in that moment, i swear we were infinite' line, nothing about this second is infinite. If only, it dawns on Sehun how calculated and unstable everything is. Jongin's bed screams fragility, the clock on the wall ticks down the seconds, Jongin's lips acknowledge the foreign feel of Sehun's lips. There's tenderness in the way Sehun closes his eyes to see explosions, in the fact that he'd love Jongin too long without touching or hugging, without doing anything books dictate you have to do before loving someone.  
  
  
Just then, the ground shakes tremendously. Sehun grips Jongin's wrist as everything around them groans down.  
  
  
  
                                                                                               ✖✖✖  
  
  
  
  
  
He had been looking for a muse, but kissed home a stripper with wet lips and experienced hands instead. Things tumbled downhill the instant Kai's elbow rested against the table. The blow had been cushioned by a warm smile and eyes knowing Sehun would take him then and there.  
  
  
 _You're far from a muse_ , he turns to Kai sleeping soundly beside him. His naked back rises and falls with every breathing and from underneath the blankets, Sehun clenches his fist to prevent any eager scratching. It must be fifth, sixth, or is it the eighth time they've crashed into bed like this; surprise meetings, suggestive looks, rushed whispers accompanied by unzipped jeans.  
  
Kai is sorely living for the 'now'; _I want this now, let's do this now, let's go now_. He goes against Sehun's faith in the past, present, and the near future.  
  
  
"I want you now," Kai would state, teeth sharp against Sehun's throat, wrist, the dip of his hips as he moves closer to Kai. (It's a lie, Kai can never be close enough). Now, has Sehun wondering about Kai's history and future. Will he be a part of it, or would that be another body to feed promises of the present into? The thought of possible betrayal haunts Sehun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Summer is already peeking between the wet buildings, Kai's roots are already planted in Sehun's foundation, and memories had been made under the pretense of 'let's just go with it for now'. They've exchanged more than just kisses and pick-up lines. Touched not only each other's body, but also the boxes of childhood secrets preserved throughout the years.  
  
  
"Nothing beats the feeling of dancing," Even with his energy drained by the wooden floor he practiced on for hours, Kai still beams at Sehun slumped down against the mirror. Sehun aggressively bites a peppero stick and recalls the scent of his palette, the feel of dabbing watercolor into his canvass.  
  
  
"No, nothing beats the feeling of painting," He takes another stick from the box, munches and swallows.  
  
  
"No, dancing is art." Kai pirouettes his way to Sehun. Sehun stops chewing to appreciate the sway of Kai's limbs, even though the whole thing is supposed to be funny. Nine steps and Kai is already in front of him, leaning down until they're face to face. When Kai's warm breath tickles the area near Sehun's lips, the latter automatically closes his lids, hoping for the kiss that didn't come.  
  
  
Had Sehun keep his eyes open, he'd have seen a mischievous smile taint Kai's lips; Kai as he moves closer to bite the chocolate-covered stick off Sehun's lips. Sehun opens his eyes and Kai is in front of him, biting his peppero stick and looking perfect while bathing in the golden sunlight.  
  
  
"I like you like this now," Sehun admits and Kai smiles at him, galaxies pasted in his eyes. Sehun realizes that  _this_ ; him and Jongin and the distance between them, is art.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Inspiration comes to Sehun in the form of french films, planetariums, bouquets in shaking hands, and even in the melodies of orchestra music. Kai, though, proves him wrong when it comes to art. Without words, Kai teaches Sehun how dancing to the right tune can claw a painting out of him, that hiding under blankets at one a.m while grinning at each other, as if you've both done something you shouldn't have done, could stuff your stomach with butterflies. Using only his fingers, Kai shows Sehun what it's like create a masterpiece without a brush.  
  
  
There had been a time when all Sehun could conjure are faint, morbid images with dark themes and elements. Now, he carves asteroids on Kai's thighs, digs for both love and lust on the curve of Kai's waist.  
  
  
"What are you working on?" Kai asks for the eighteenth time (Sehun keeps count).  
  
  
"It's a secret," he says before locking the door behind him. It always begins with Kai inquiring about Sehun's work and ends with Sehun rushing over to his studio; their polished version of hide-and-seek.  
  
  
Before Sehun lies everything his imagination could share to paper, but never to Kai himself. They're too embarrassing and trusting because all that's captured in charcoal and acrylic are stuff about astronomy, more art, and anatomy. All related to Kai, of course.  
  
Hanging on the wall is a medium-sized, framed portrait of Kai with stardust caught in his hair and nebulae glowing in the dark of iris. Constellations trace the lines of his jaw and shoulders, rose petals growing out of his lips.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I don't like cuddling,"  
  
"I do," Kai chuckles, snuggling deeper into the crook of Sehun's neck. The dust of sleep is still in Sehun's eyes as Kai binds them closer with his arms. "I like touching and hugging and kissing."  
  
"And fucking." Sehun adds.  
  
Kai laughs, his chest shaking against Sehun's back. "And fucking, too. I like doing everything with you. Hey Sehun, hey. Hey Sehun, hey."  
  
"I can hear you perfectly fine, what is it?"  
  
"Promise me something," The tone of Kai's voice lowers, timbres swirling in the air. "Promise me that you'll be careful from now on. Promise me you'll look both ways before crossing the street. That you'll never forget how dangerous guns can be. Whenever you're tempted to jump from something high to kill yourself, promise me you'll take three deep breaths and think of things that make you happy. Then turn around and brew yourself some tea. Promise me that you won't go to places that can kill you. Promise me you'll try to stay alive."  
  
  
"That's a ridiculously easy promise to keep. Alright, I promise." Sehun brings up his right hand, raising his pinky finger and wraps it around Kai's waiting one. "In turn, promise me you'll try to say things like 'tomorrow', 'next time', 'after a month'. Promise me you'll make plans and boring to-do lists. This isn't really hard to do, isn't it? I'll be alive and you, well, just try to be a normal person."  
  
  
Kai tightens his hold on Sehun's pinky, tugs his hand toward him and secures the string of promises with a light kiss. If kisses were sounds, this one would be a whisper, a grazing of lips against lips and tongue. Something so beautiful it would be a sin to say anything else. Bed sheets cling to Sehun's legs, and Kai understands: he does not want to let go of Sehun either.  
  
  
"Later," Kai pants, diving deeper into the pillows. "I'm going to go and practice. After work, maybe we can have some take out Chinese and binge on those old films you like to watch. Tomorrow's my day off, let's go for a picnic. I heard they're nice and refreshing. And when we arrive home, let's have sex. Make love, if you think it's more romantic."  
  
  
"That," Sehun's traps Jongin's neck with his arms. "Sounds like a good and safe plan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes, we create accidents instead of endings.  
  
Maybe they've been smudged to the point where it's hard to differentiate this from that. Sehun should never had said 'I love you' to Jongin. If he'd known Jongin would only choose to drive them into a dark dirt road, he wouldn't have accepted the invitation.  
  
But it's too late now.  
  
190 mph. The numbers blink at him, illuminating the silver platter where his memories are laid out: the past, the present, the repeating futures. In the indigo darkness, the only things that stand out are the orange neons, the veins on the side of Sehun's neck and temples. Everything beside Sehun blurs as the images behind his vision turns clearer.  
  
 _Kai laughing as Sehun felt each shake. "And fucking, too. I like doing everything with you. Hey Sehun, hey. Hey Sehun, hey."_  
  
 _"Let's say you didn't always love me."  
  
  
"What if I've seen you and fallen in love with you in a lot of parallel worlds?"_  
  
  
"This is for the best," Kai says and he has already pushed the gas pedal as hard as it can go. Jigsaw pieces click in Sehun's mind. Kai in a hospital bed. Kai dancing under the spotlight. Kai sitting beside him, calling himself a writer. Kai wrapping a hand on his wrist, pulling him away from chaos. Kai leaning against the railing, young and carefree. Kai in ancient robes. Kai as Kim Jongin.  
  
  
"Just remember that I, Kim Jongin, love you and it doesn't matter if you forget everything else," Jongin says, voice as unstable as the car speeding through the dark.  
  
  
 _"The prince was killed because he was stupid enough to get killed, and just when the servant wanted to pull a sleeping-beauty on the prince, they both vanished."  
  
  
"Go on and jump,"_  
  
  
Sehun remembers, and fresh tears trail after bittersweet memories. On this very second, he regrets forcing Jongin to say words about the future. Tomorrow, next week, after two years; obviously based on experience, he can never rely on the assurance that they'd live forever.  
  
  
 _"I'll be back."_  
  
  
"I'll be back for you, always." Jongin, the servant, says and tightens his hold on his prince's hand; the only thing that remained steady as the ground vanished and they tumbled and tumbled down to kiss the pit of death waiting for them.  
  
  
 _Thank you, I'll be putting myself under your care._  
  
  
  
                                                                                                            ✖✖✖  
  
  
  
  
  
There isn't much to say about Jongdae's life aside from how he never got what he wanted.  
  
  
Six year old Jongdae asked Santa for a remote-controlled helicopter, yet ended up unwrapping a plastic toy gun on Christmas morning. Wished for a brand-new car for his graduation present, but was handed the keys of a horrendous orange truck instead. Dreamed of becoming a poet, but found himself driving down the road towards professional journalism. After a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations, Jongdae stopped hoping.  
  
  
And this is what a hopeless man looks like (you might see him in the street): hair three inches longer than what was acceptable, stained, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, unlit cigarette dangling at the corner of his lips because lightening them up is  _so_  mainstream. Jongdae is anything  _but_ mainstream.  
  
  
No one likes him;  _he's too pretentious and tries too hard._  But it's okay since Jongdae isn't fond of other human beings either;  _Let me shit on your opinions._  
  
  
Tolerating Jongdae isn't difficult because he does a damned good job at writing. His co-workers established that it's cool to have no manners and stink all the way to Jeju and back as long as what Jongdae does is good and passed on time. Due to this outstanding quality, Jongdae's the perfect person to cover the latest scoop; a peculiar happening hinted by an anonymous caller.  
  
  
"Here we are. Geumgangsan Mountains," Beside him, a man with chubby cheeks turns off the engines, takes his bag and pulls the keys out. Jongdae nearly forgot him.  
  
  
"Who are you again?" Jongdae steps out of the car. Chubby cheeks follows.  
  
  
He's too used to this to be dazed by Jongdae's inattention. Clutching the strap of his black bag tighter, he recites, "I am Minseok, your photographer. I'm working with you today and I will take shots of whatever you can gather."  
  
  
"Oh, okay Minseok the photographer. Let's get going then. It's too cold today, isn't it?" Jongdae begins making light, small talk as they trudge closer to the looming mountains, its sharp edges and calloused rocks.  
  
  
Minseok nods. He doesn't remind Jongdae they've been covering scoops side-by-side for three years now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's as bad as the caller said.  
  
  
Guided by the map Jongdae drew earlier to indicate the location of said fallen car, it took twenty-six minutes for Jongdae and Minseok the photographer to find the ditch it landed in. It strikes Jongdae as suspicious that someone would know about an accident like this in an abandoned area.  
  
  
Dewy and fresh, each branch of a tree they happen to pass by emits such leafy colors Minseok just has to fumble to remove his camera from his bag and take in nature's goodness inside the lens.  
  
  
Jongdae moves forward, ignoring the shutter sound, ignoring Minseok and everything outside his personal bubble. The mountains are intimidating and beautiful, but that doesn't diminish the danger lurking behind them.  
  
  
"Minseok the photographer? Come here for a second . . . " Jongdae's voice gets smaller the farther he goes. Mindlessly, Minseok trails along, vision locked on Jongdae's dark clothes in the midst of all the greenery. Jongdae had always been the very thing Minseok can't pry his eye off. "That is so sad."  
  
  
Jongdae chokes on the word  _sad_  as if it's a tangible rope coiling around his larynx. Minseok looks and wishes he didn't. The journalist and photographer walks side by side.  
  
  
Sentences knots itself into other sentences in the folds of Jongdae's brain. Eventually, Minseok runs out of angles to capture the heart-breaking scene in front of them. To Jongdae, a million adjectives hides on the ground: covered by lost twigs and wrecked metal parts, inserted behind the button of a soiled shirt, peeking through thick eyebrows brushing over pale cheeks.  
  
  
"At least they died together," Minseok stares at the interlaced fingers.  
  
  
Jongdae observes the two bodies, shrugs his shoulders, keeping his gaze on the  broken pieces of a green stone that might have been jade.  
  
  
"Yeah, together."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**F I N**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of transferring all my previous works here while writing new stuff again. It has been years and I'm feeling more of myself these days. I miss writing. I miss this fandom. This is probably my personal favorite work. This still haunts me to this day and I'll probably rewrite this soon. For now, I hope you enjoy this :)


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